“I’ve got to go, Sarah. I hate to talk on the phone while I drive. Is it okay if we talk later?”
“Call me anytime.”
After saying goodbye, Grace snapped her phone shut and dropped it on the seat next to her. Sarah had mellowed over the years, or maybe it was Steven’s death that had changed her. Grief had a way of doing that to people. Grace made a mental note to call her tonight, not because she had a sudden yearning to talk to the woman, but because she felt sorry for her. For all her money, her busy social life and a houseful of servants, Sarah was a very lonely woman.
Grace left the town behind and followed North River Road, a narrow, winding thoroughfare that led deeper into the heart of Bucks County. As the morning mist lifted, making way for bright sunshine, she understood why Steven, who had an eye for beauty, had chosen this part of Pennsylvania as his new home. And why local artists never tired of painting those magnificent landscapes.
Grace raised her visor so she could feast on the scenery. Ancient oaks and red maples bordered the road, forming a brilliant canopy of yellow, orange and russet. Tucked behind those majestic trees, centuries-old homes overlooked the Delaware River, one of the most historic waterways in the nation. It was difficult to look at this setting and not recall how history was made, right here in Bucks County.
Steven’s cottage, although small, took her breath away. Half-timbered and Northern European in style, it was barely fifteen feet wide, with wood beams on the exterior walls and cedar shingles on the roof. The windows, all leaded glass, were small, but in perfect balance with the rest of the house.
Grace pulled her car onto the graveled driveway, half of which was covered with dry leaves, and went to unlock the door. She found herself in an attractive living room with comfortable sofas and chairs in a plain navy fabric, and plush wall-to-wall carpeting in a neutral shade. A corner of the room had been made into a dining area, with a round maple table and four chairs. The high ceilings and natural flow from one room to the next made the cottage seem bigger than it was. A flight of stairs in the middle of the living room led to a second floor.
She put her suitcase down and took time to look at the mementos Steven had accumulated over the years—an antique peg hook where he had hung art work, a whimsical white gourd lamp and a garden urn that served as a side table. Family photographs were everywhere; some she had seen before, others she didn’t know. On the mantel, above the stone fireplace, was one photograph she knew very well. It had been taken in Santa Barbara, where she and Steven had attended an art festival a few months before their breakup.
The snapshot brought back vivid memories of their two years as a couple, the plans they had made to someday own an art gallery together and the young artists they hoped to discover, all in spite of Sarah’s strong objections.
As the wedding date drew near, however, Grace began to fear that as much as she tried to ignore her future mother-in-law’s criticism, the strain of that relationship would eventually affect her and Steven’s marriage.
“That’s what we call getting cold feet,” her father had cautioned. “If you’re not ready to get married, don’t do it.”
Maybe that’s why Steven’s betrayal hadn’t hurt her as deeply as she had expected. Although wounded at first, after a few days, she was able to look at the breakup as a blessing rather than a tragedy. A few months later, when Steven had called to ask if she could take a look at a sculpture he was thinking of buying, she had surprised herself by saying yes.
She was glad that he had fulfilled his dreams, Grace thought as she kept gazing at the photograph, and saddened that he had enjoyed his success for such a short time. She wasn’t sure why he had kept this snapshot, though. Sentimentality? A memento of what could have been?
After
“Call me anytime.”
After saying goodbye, Grace snapped her phone shut and dropped it on the seat next to her. Sarah had mellowed over the years, or maybe it was Steven’s death that had changed her. Grief had a way of doing that to people. Grace made a mental note to call her tonight, not because she had a sudden yearning to talk to the woman, but because she felt sorry for her. For all her money, her busy social life and a houseful of servants, Sarah was a very lonely woman.
Grace left the town behind and followed North River Road, a narrow, winding thoroughfare that led deeper into the heart of Bucks County. As the morning mist lifted, making way for bright sunshine, she understood why Steven, who had an eye for beauty, had chosen this part of Pennsylvania as his new home. And why local artists never tired of painting those magnificent landscapes.
Grace raised her visor so she could feast on the scenery. Ancient oaks and red maples bordered the road, forming a brilliant canopy of yellow, orange and russet. Tucked behind those majestic trees, centuries-old homes overlooked the Delaware River, one of the most historic waterways in the nation. It was difficult to look at this setting and not recall how history was made, right here in Bucks County.
Steven’s cottage, although small, took her breath away. Half-timbered and Northern European in style, it was barely fifteen feet wide, with wood beams on the exterior walls and cedar shingles on the roof. The windows, all leaded glass, were small, but in perfect balance with the rest of the house.
Grace pulled her car onto the graveled driveway, half of which was covered with dry leaves, and went to unlock the door. She found herself in an attractive living room with comfortable sofas and chairs in a plain navy fabric, and plush wall-to-wall carpeting in a neutral shade. A corner of the room had been made into a dining area, with a round maple table and four chairs. The high ceilings and natural flow from one room to the next made the cottage seem bigger than it was. A flight of stairs in the middle of the living room led to a second floor.
She put her suitcase down and took time to look at the mementos Steven had accumulated over the years—an antique peg hook where he had hung art work, a whimsical white gourd lamp and a garden urn that served as a side table. Family photographs were everywhere; some she had seen before, others she didn’t know. On the mantel, above the stone fireplace, was one photograph she knew very well. It had been taken in Santa Barbara, where she and Steven had attended an art festival a few months before their breakup.
The snapshot brought back vivid memories of their two years as a couple, the plans they had made to someday own an art gallery together and the young artists they hoped to discover, all in spite of Sarah’s strong objections.
As the wedding date drew near, however, Grace began to fear that as much as she tried to ignore her future mother-in-law’s criticism, the strain of that relationship would eventually affect her and Steven’s marriage.
“That’s what we call getting cold feet,” her father had cautioned. “If you’re not ready to get married, don’t do it.”
Maybe that’s why Steven’s betrayal hadn’t hurt her as deeply as she had expected. Although wounded at first, after a few days, she was able to look at the breakup as a blessing rather than a tragedy. A few months later, when Steven had called to ask if she could take a look at a sculpture he was thinking of buying, she had surprised herself by saying yes.
She was glad that he had fulfilled his dreams, Grace thought as she kept gazing at the photograph, and saddened that he had enjoyed his success for such a short time. She wasn’t sure why he had kept this snapshot, though. Sentimentality? A memento of what could have been?
After
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